


A Gift Just For You

by meshkol (ashernorton)



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Captivity, Choking, Crying, Dubious Consent, Edgeplay, Emotional Manipulation, Extremis (Marvel), Extremis Tony Stark, Forced Orgasm, Hand Jobs, Hurt Steve Rogers, M/M, Manhandling, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Painful Sex, Prostate Milking, Psychological Torture, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Superior Iron Man Vol 1. (2015), Unhappy Ending, inverted Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:37:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22287961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashernorton/pseuds/meshkol
Summary: The Avengers have been inverted and Steve needs allies.If only Tony had been an ally.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53
Collections: It will never get better, You Gave Me A Stocking 2019





	A Gift Just For You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kiyaar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiyaar/gifts).

> A gift to [Kiyaar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiyaar/profile) for the _You Gave Me A Stocking_ event on discord, [dreamwidth](https://yougavemeastocking.dreamwidth.org/), and [here on ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/yougavemeastocking). I do hope you enjoy this twisted thing my brain came up with in between the metric fuck-tonne of insanity going on in the good ol' day-to-day. SIM is something that I've always wanted to write, never really had the time/inspiration to, and am super enthusiastic about. I mean, villain(ish) Tony Stark? Yes please! Combined with a request for Steve whump? I'm fuckin' sold. So this was a lot of fun to write, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Thank you to the mods (including Kiyaar herself, hilariously enough) for putting this on and letting me jump in after-the-fact to fill a stocking. This was a lot of fun and pretty low-threat, and it gave me an excuse to avoid real life for a while in exchange for fic and porn. Bless.
> 
> Fic is in that wonky timeframe of Superior Iron Man and AXIS, and before Hickman's 'finale', with some liberties taken with 616 timeline irregularies as well as general biology because _wot are coherent and linear timelines and also extremis 3.0 was pulled out of our arses hur hur hur i'm marvel i do what i want!_ Ahem. Anyway. Please mind the tags, and this is not a happy fic, nor does it have a happy ending. Or anything even remotely _resembling_ a happy ending honestly.
> 
> Enjoy!

Steve has an awful curling of wary dread in his gut, but he can’t bring himself to pull back.

It’s not like Steve hadn’t been aware that Tony’d been experimenting with Extremis – sure, Tony hadn’t briefed him or the rest of the Avengers on _precisely_ this level of usage, only the intent to utilise it through free medical supplementation to anyone who qualified, but it’s not exactly...surprising that he’d pushed out a beta version to San Francisco. Perhaps he hadn’t expected the beautification of Franciscans, but Steve can see where Tony’s getting at, because it’s a fairly standard way to develop buzz about a product. He’s been the leader of the Avengers, the Director of SHIELD, a seller of war bonds and American propaganda no matter how justified, and one of Tony Stark’s best friends for better or for worse for too damn long to not know how capitalism works.

He also knows that Tony, while manipulated by the Red Skull into building the Sentinels, had still been embedded with the telepathy implant, so combined with the altruism (albeit at an absurdly high cost) and the fact that he’s not getting involved in the pseudo-war between the Avengers and X-Men does give Steve hope that Tony wasn’t inverted like the rest, and if he had been, it’d been mostly blocked by the implant or Tony’s usual way of somehow being the luckiest, smartest sonofabitch Steve’s ever met. Namely, finding out a way last-second to shield himself from Onslaught’s machinations, which is just the thing Tony’s infamous for, and generally makes him save the day when it comes to his own inventions and solutions threatening mankind.

Furthermore, Tony’s been publicly taking down actual criminals on the West Coast, so that’s a point in his favour.

Still, that little curl of wary dread remains because there’s the _drinking_, and he can’t imagine that Tony wouldn’t at least _try_ to mediate the conflict between the Avengers and X-Men, or at least get in touch with Steve to figure out what was going on. It just doesn’t feel right, like something just slightly off but not enough to really feel _wrong_ either.

He knows he’s probably making a colossal mistake, on the very minuscule off-chance that Tony’s sane and rational, but he can’t help it. He’s surrounded by villains and he needs a friendly face, someone who he can trust outside of people who’ve tried to commit genocide or kill the people Steve loves. Tony’s the only one left, other than maybe Parker, and he makes the decision against a good portion of his gut telling him it’s a terrible idea. Still, he can’t believe that Tony, even inverted, would want him dead – a switch of Tony’s moral compass isn’t total carnage and annihilation, after all, more like sex, drugs, rock and roll, and maybe taking over the world with the least effort possible while still having a good time and looking amazing doing it.

Steve may be old in body now and completely stripped of his serum, but he’s still got the training from his adult life of warfare, infiltration, and general combat. He grits his teeth through the exhausted aching in his bones as he disembarks from the SHIELD submersible onto Stark Island, slips past drunken partygoers and Tony’s predictable external security systems (though the fact that it’s predictable makes him incredibly nervous, despite the fact that he knows Tony well enough _to_ predict his patterns), and makes his way through the mammoth complex until there are more unconscious or...otherwise distracted bodies than anything else, and combined with the dim lighting in the corridors, Steve’s able to just blatantly walk past entwined bodies without being noticed.

At this point, there is literally no way that Tony’s security hasn’t caught on to the fact that Steve’s in the building, but Steve has the nauseating realisation that Tony’s participating in one of the...groups and likely doesn’t see Steve in his building as an issue. If Tony’s still his usual self, he undoubtedly trusts Steve enough to allow him free reign of his facilities, and if he’s inverted like the rest, it’s very possible that he doesn’t even see Steve as a threat, both from his age and the fact that Tony has _always_ been capable of killing Steve if he’d ever had the inkling to, regardless of what Steve might think in his most proud moments. Tony’s a one-man nuclear deterrent and could certainly destroy worlds if he ever had the taste for blood, and _God_, Steve _prays_ he’s not inverted in the worst possible way because Tony’s one of the only living beings in the universe that he doesn’t think he could stop, because it’s _Tony_, and he’s—

No, best not think of that because it’s irrelevant, and his feelings for Tony are so far removed from this situation that it’s practically on the other end of the galaxy with the Guardians, if not even further.

And Steve knows that he’d do anything to protect innocent people, even bring down Tony, though it would kill Steve to do it.

He has never been to Stark Island but Tony’s consistent when it comes to building schematics and interior decorating, so he finds his way around gyrating bodies and spilt illicit substances until he’s made his way to the penthouse, where Tony obviously sleeps – or at least brings home people to engage with. There are a lot of bodies in the bedroom when he nudges his way in, some of them snorting powders or knocking back shots but most of them having sex in all sorts of positions and stages of undress, some of them masturbating alone while they watch and some in a pile of swivelling figures glistening under the dim lights overhead.

He’s not a stranger to sex in the slightest, and he’s walked in on Avengers and SHIELD agents in compromising positions before, and he’s done ops and missions in depraved places over an entire century, and again he’s been close friends with Tony for years upon years, but it still hits his senses like a punch to the solar plexus: the smell of it, cloying and humid in his sinuses; the taste of evaporating sweat on the filtrated air; the feel of heat from exerting bodies that dampens and curls along his perpetually-cold and dry skin. He doesn’t need the serum for the invisible wall of musk and sex to hit him, and honestly he’s somewhat thankful that he _doesn’t_ have the serum and he’s an old man, because every single person in this massive room is unbelievably attractive and he’s only human; he’s fairly certain there’s no virile man alive who wouldn’t get aroused by the bodies around him, regardless of how distasteful it is.

Lord, but Steve misses the easy days, without Infinity Gems and universe-ending threats and the Illuminati and so much death that it feels like even Steve’s dreams bleed red.

He forces himself to focus, ignoring the actions – both illegal and legal – that are going on in front of him so he can flit his eyes around faces and bodies, looking for the familiar angles and curves of Tony. He doesn’t see him but that doesn’t mean much; there are so many people in Tony’s bedroom that it’s impossible for even Steve to get a good look at every person without moving closer, so he sucks in a sharp, shallow breath in preparation and readies himself to move.

Except he doesn’t.

He has the usual instinctive reaction to _fight_, his aged body still capable of doing it even if he’ll probably end up breaking something in the process, but the instinct fades away almost instantaneously because he recognises the roughness of the hands on the back of his neck and the smell of metal in the air, and all he can do is relax because the touch is gentle and unthreatening and oh so gloriously familiar.

“Hey,” he hears in his ear, warmth tickling the perpetually cold skin on the back of Steve’s neck. “C’mon, you shouldn’t be in here. What would your mother think, eh?”

Steve cracks a weak, almost relieved smile at the familiar tone of voice and the teasing lilt of it. “Probably smack my fingers with a newsprint and send me to Confession,” Steve admits, unable to keep the relief out of his shaking voice, and then allows Tony to pull him back from the doorway and into the less-crowded corridors.

“Well, let’s go to my lab downstairs and save your old-man morality from the mortal sin of my depraved partying, yeah?” Tony jokes as Steve turns in Tony’s grasp, squinting in the dark corridor in an effort to see his friend fully. God, he misses the serum and its ability to let him see everything, even in low-light. Tony has always been a handsome man, but through Steve’s enhanced eyes, he’d been _unbelievable_. Tony continues quietly, “It’s quieter down there, and I’ve retrofitted it to be a SCIF so we can talk freely. I’m guessing you’re here about the...well, let’s just go down to the sublevels, okay?”

“Yes,” Steve says, and almost shivers when Tony’s hand falls down his shoulder and to his wrist until he’s completely untouched. He knows it wasn’t intentional, but it’s been a long time since Steve’s been touched outside of a life-or-death situation, since not even Ian is a tactile person and everyone Steve knows generally assumes he doesn’t want to be touched in any way lest Steve will take it as a slight to his age. Tony’s always been tactile though, but Tony’s been almost a stranger since...well, a while. Steve can’t quite remember when they stopped hanging out, or even talked to each other outside of a mission between Avengers teams, like it’s a blank spot in his memory that he _should_ remember but can’t.

Not for the first time, Steve wonders if it’s his serum-less age getting to him, making his memory muddled and unclear, or if it was an intentional deletion, but he hasn’t found any evidence for it despite searching for answers, and nothing seems to be missing, exactly.

He follows Tony through the residential quarters until they arrive at a private lift that’s secured by the usual biometrics: retinal, DNA, digital, and the one-of-a-kind Extremis he still runs in his body. The doors close and they drop quickly until even Steve’s old ears can tell that they’re under the seabed at Alcatraz, where Tony’s highly classified and vital workshops and labs are. Underground is easier to protect, after all, and Tony might be flashy but he’s not stupid. Misguided, yes, and desperately reaching for any opportunity to make things better or simply right, but never stupid.

The workshop is large, clean and modernistic as per usual but oddly dark instead of the usual hot mess of colours. The lighting is still industrial, but there is a lot of blue rather than the usual white, which Steve’s supposes is the new thing for techheads, considering the headlights on cars nowadays. In any case, there’s something decidedly _off_ about the space that Steve can’t quite put his finger on, and his eyes flit around the space in an effort to place it.

It hits him after they’ve stopped in front of the medical chair contraption that Tony uses to maintain his RT without removing it that there are no discarded coffee mugs, in any state of use, anywhere in the entire space. It’s something that Steve’s _never_ seen in one of Tony’s workspaces or personal areas, because even if they’re filled with booze it’s still quintessentially Tony to see mugs littered around the place, and suddenly Steve is dead convinced that there’s something wrong, that Tony’s _inverted_—

“Steve, I want to show you something,” Tony says cheerfully, and Steve’s eyes flicker over to him, taking in the debonair grin, the sparkling blue eyes, the impeccably groomed facial hair, his smooth olive skin. He’s so handsome, taller than Steve now because his spine hasn’t curved and compacted with age, and he's built with thick, but lean muscle, and oh this is wrong, Tony’s _wrong_.

“Tony,” he starts, his stomach heavy with dread, taking one step back towards the lift, and there’s nothing that he can do when Tony flashes forward, a syringe of some unidentifiable liquid jabbing into his neck with a little twinge of pain. Tony’s so much stronger than Steve is now so he can’t even struggle when he feels Tony start dragging his body towards the padded metal chair, surrounded by robotics and cold restraints, but he supposes it doesn’t matter because suddenly he feels _wrong_ too, stretched thin and liquid, like his entire body is undulating to some unknown force.

“It’s okay, Steve, it’s okay,” Tony croons as he forces Steve to the chair, sitting him down but not strapping him into the restraints, simply holding him tight against the thin padding on the metal chair so Steve can’t do anything but twitch and shake. “I’m giving you a gift, made just for you.”

Steve can’t speak, his tongue lolling in his closed mouth, and he wants to scratch at his skin until the indescribable feeling of his flesh melting goes away. It doesn’t hurt, at least, but it’s horrifyingly visceral, and it makes his flesh crawl, stomach cramping with nausea. “Just for you,” Tony all but sings, fingers stroking through Steve’s hair, and Steve’s vision is blurry until suddenly it’s not, sharp and vivid and so bright that it almost gives him an instant migraine until even that’s gone too.

The crawling of his skin peters away after what feels like hours of horrible discomfort and all Steve can do is pant, though that feels strange as well – it’s stronger, deeper, and Steve blames the shock of the situation for the obscenely long amount of time it takes his brain to connect the dots to Extremis. Tony’s injected him with Extremis, and _God_, what does that even mean?

Tony’s blue eyes are drinking Steve in with gleeful awe, which means he obviously sees the question Steve’s going to ask because he says, “It’s okay, Steve. You don’t have the serum back but you’re young and strong again, just like you’re meant to be. I’m sorry for holding you down but I didn’t want to knock you unconscious and you would’ve scratched yourself to death if I hadn’t kept you still. I’m so sorry, Steve, but it’s over now, yeah? Do you want to see? God, you’re gorgeous, Steve – I almost forgot how gorgeous you are.”

Steve swallows thickly, the rush of words clamouring in his brain at the same time that he feels the shock of _young again I’m young again_ that echoes the vigour he feels in his bones and muscles. Everything’s tighter and feels strong, not like when he’d had the serum but familiar all the same, and all he can think of is the good that he can do with a strong, young body again, even if he’s not enhanced.

He tests Tony’s give by moving to sit up, and Tony lets him do it, though he’s still in Steve’s personal space. It’s a bit...too close, honestly, even for Tony, but he can’t help but be comforted by the proximity of his friend, who’s _given him youth_. Suddenly he understands why everyone’s been clamouring for Extremis 3.0, even if Steve thinks that Tony’s practically committing a crime with his exuberant, unsustainable prices that result in terrible actions from patrons – it’s intoxicating to feel like he could run a thousand miles again after so long in his old, creaking, dying body, especially when Steve himself is so used to fighting and taking a physical stand. If other Avengers, like Sam, can be superheroes without some sort of Mutant ability or serum in their veins, so can Steve, and in a contact role like he was practically born to do, rather than the administrative one he’s been playing at.

Steve clears his throat and jokes with a stronger, younger voice, “You gonna charge me a hundred dollars a day just to keep it up?”

Tony grins widely, eyes sparkling with something that Steve wants to read as greed, but that can’t be right because he answers drolly, “Of course not, Steve. Never for you, even though you could certainly afford it. No, you _deserve_ to have your youth back – you may be old as all hell in a linear sense, but you are a strong, forty-year-old man at heart. I’d give you the serum back too, if I could, but alas, that’s lost to time, darling.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says, and that’s an honest statement at least; this is _remarkable_, but Steve can’t help but think there’s a catch, because he _knows_ in his gut that Tony’s inverted and ‘inverted’ does not mean selfless. Giving Steve Extremis is something the normal Tony would do, off a deep morality that he’s fought and worked and bled for since Afghanistan, but not _this_ Tony. Therefore, he clears his throat again, clenches his fingers into fists until he slowly releases the tension, and asks warily, “What’s the catch?”

Tony gives him a wide-eyed expression of obviously fabricated hurt and then immediately grins again, stepping close-close-close and letting his fingers trail along Steve’s cheekbone in a soft, tingling glide. Steve tenses up even as his skin ripples with gooseflesh, because this is something they’ve never done, even though Steve’s dreamt about it for over a decade, even though Infinity Gems and civil wars, dreamt about touching Tony Stark and being touched in return. He wants to close his eyes and melt in his touch, maybe even respond, but he forces himself to stay on guard, eyes open and carefully watching every move Tony makes with a critical eye.

His voice slightly rough, Tony finally says, “I wish there wasn’t a catch, but Extremis is expensive, even for old friends. And besides, why shouldn’t I get to reap the benefits of a youthful, virile Steve Rogers? I deserve that, don’t you think? For making you beautiful and strong again? Besides, we’re meant to fight side-by-side, aren’t we? Iron Man and Captain America, though I suppose Sam would be quite upset if you stole his moniker again. Maybe you can kill Rikki and take back Nomad, without the cape of course. That was ridiculous, even you have to admit, and I won’t be caught dead with a hero that looks like _that_.”

Steve’s chest feels tight and his brain is buzzing with alarm because he can’t quite determine if Tony’s joking or not, but despite that, his flesh and blood is curling in his body, hot and thick and languid, as Tony’s calloused fingers trail down his neck to the dip in his neck, where the latch to his now-too-tight stealth suit is laid. With a deft flick of his fingers, it comes undone, and then Tony’s dragging down the zipper, his blue eyes seeming to glow in the dimmed lighting of his lab as he watches Steve’s body slowly get stripped to the thin undersuit—

Steve’s hand snaps up and he stalls Tony’s advance, tongue thick in his mouth as he fights the arousal. He can feel his prick starting to stir, not yet growing hard but certainly interested enough that Steve _could_ get hard if he allowed himself to, and this is the last thing they need to be doing right now even though he wants, _oh_ he wants.

“Tony,” Steve says, keeping his words low and smooth and even, making sure they can’t be perceived as incendiary or angry. “You know what’s going on back East, and we can’t allow that to continue. Help me bring everyone back, set everything _right_. Please, Tony, help me make things right.”

There’s a flash of fury on Tony’s handsome face that Steve almost misses before it’s erased by that awed, glazed look from before, as if he’s completely swept away by Steve. It’s threatening to shake Steve apart, being looked at like that by Tony, because it’s always been a fantasy to find out what it’s like to be the focus of all that chaotic energy. He’s never, not once, had the courage or the ability to ask Tony if he’d be amendable to a relationship, even just a casual sexual relationship between friends, and he’s always regretted it, even though he’d never done a single thing to rectify that regret when they’d both been single and lonely. Captain America, beacon of freedom and justice and bull-headed stubbornness, and yet he’s always been afraid of reaching for Tony, seeing if they _could_ have something more.

He’s fairly certain that everyone except the man himself is aware that Steve has been in love with Tony Stark damn near since he came out of the ice and was given a home, for better or for worse, civil wars and disagreements be damned.

There’s never been any doubt that Tony’s his biggest weakness as well as his biggest strength, and sometimes Steve can’t help but hate Tony for it, even if it’s not Tony’s fault.

“Steve, this isn’t fair to either one of us,” Tony says, and there is a twinge of something very dark underneath his pleasantly spoken whine.

Steve tests his luck and tries to stand, relieved when Tony allows it. There are so many contrasting things going on with Tony right now that Steve feels perpetually off-balance, and he almost wants to push – verbally or physically – just to see how Tony responds, but he can’t take that chance either. Tony’s a lot stronger than he is, even if Steve’s been changed by Extremis, plus he has that odd armour Steve had witnessed in civilian mobile footage, the silver armour that looked like liquid mercury. There’s no way that Steve would be able to fight that as he is right now, in Tony’s highly secure workshop, completely alone thousands of miles away from home.

He never should’ve come here.

“If you won’t help me, then I’d appreciate it if you’d let me leave, Tony,” Steve says, riding the line between demanding and asking.

This time, there’s no flash of anger, but the awe does disappear from Tony’s face, exchanged for a genuine look of hurt. “You know,” Tony says slowly, his voice very rough with emotion even though there’s a thin, sardonic smile on his face, “I always wondered—I never thought I was—look, I’ve always wondered if I wasn’t just reading too much into things, if I wasn’t just deluding myself in some twisted but totally unexpected flood of wish fulfilment or something, that maybe we...had something. Maybe. I don’t know. But I suppose I was just projecting so...thanks for clearing that up. Appreciate your honesty, I guess. I’ll...try to give you space, keep things from being even more awkward and strained, and I’m sorry.”

Okay, so that hurts, and it also has the added bonus of not being fair. Still, Steve can’t read any dishonesty in the words, and he’s generally pretty good about realising when Tony’s lying through his teeth. Steve feels himself deflate as he stops trying to edge away, and despite knowing he should leave, he takes a deep breath and turns to Tony, eyes flickering all over that handsome, familiar face. He could look at Tony every single day and never see the same emotion twice, and even though he knows Tony’s _wrong_ somehow, he can’t stomach the thought of Tony believing something so incorrect, nor can he contemplate leaving when Tony looks so self-depreciating and gutted.

There are a lot of things that Steve’s never told Tony before, so many emotions and feelings he was always too scared or wary to talk about, but Tony’s all but admitted that he feels something for Steve and he _has_ to be strong now. Besides, it’s way past time for them to clear the air. Steve won’t be young forever, after all, and they’ve wasted enough time as is.

They’ve wasted _so_ much time.

Steve swallows thickly, takes a very deep breath that burns in his lungs, and says shakily, “That’s not true.” He can’t help but raise his hand when Tony’s eyes widen slightly with the admission, echoing Tony’s prior touch by cupping Tony’s jaw in his palm, his thumb brushing along the sharp cut of his cheekbone. _God_ but he’s beautiful, so beautiful that Steve feels like he can never get enough oxygen in his lungs, perpetually out-of-breath from the shock of it even though it should be familiar after years of feeling it.

“Steve,” Tony says, very quiet, and his palm rests on the thin undershirt he’d previously exposed, warm and light against Steve’s sternum. His eyes are blown out and Steve can’t see anything but the way they’re wide open, staring at Steve like he’ll never get another opportunity. Maybe he won’t, if he doesn’t let Steve keep Extremis or Steve can’t find a way to get his youth (and serum) back. “Please,” Tony whispers, breathy and slow, “please don’t leave me.”

“Then don’t leave _me_,” answers Steve, his free hand lifting until he can cover Tony’s hand with his own, both of them against Steve’s pounding heart. “Come with me, Tony, _please_.”

Tony’s eyes flick back and forth between Steve’s, that brilliant mind whirling and working and weighing outcomes, and Steve sees the second that Tony makes up his mind. He holds his breath in preparation, completely unsure as to what Tony’s answer will be, and his fingers clench against Tony’s, the other hand moving to cup the back of Tony’s head.

Tony looks down at Steve’s mouth and says very, very quietly, “You aren’t taking this away from us. You won’t take our freedom.”

Steve’s stinging eyes shut tightly, stomach dropping until it feels like it’s settled in his feet, and he tries to pull away but Tony grabs Steve by both of his wrists, pushing them both backwards with a strength that Steve can’t match. He tries though, he tries, and it’s a tangle of limbs until Tony’s pushing him hard against a wall, the breath knocked out of him and his head cracking against the surface.

“You are a liar, Steve Rogers,” Tony says, voice deceptively pleasant as he crowds into Steve’s space, breath hot and humid against Steve’s cheek. “You pretend that you love me, but you’re just trying to force me into what _you_ want instead of who I _am_. This is _me_, Steve, whether you like it or not. I’ve never been stronger and more myself in my life, and I’m not hurting anyone. I’ve made this city young and strong and all but immortal, just like I did you, and you want me to take that away from them so I can go back to be muzzled? If you really, truly loved me, you’d let me be _free_.”

One of Tony’s hands forces Steve’s arms together in between them, grabbing Steve’s wrists with fingers that are bleeding with liquid metal, then Tony’s yanking them over their heads, slamming Steve’s arms against the wall with force. The other hand trails down Steve’s body from the hollow of his neck and down the centre until he’s tracing the crease separating Steve’s groin from his thigh, inching higher and higher but avoiding touching Steve’s fattening prick. Steve chokes on his oxygen, and his mind is warring between the desperate need to break free by any means necessary and the arousal that is singing through his body without his consent.

He doesn’t want to feel this for a caricature of his best friend and teammate, doesn’t want to _want_ him so bad because Tony’s _wrong_, but it’s impossible to separate the situation from the man who’s manhandling his body with his enhanced strength and liquid armour. His prick, previously almost deadened due to age, is aching in its tight confines, even though he knows that it’s not noticeable because of the groin cup. He wants this to stop, for Tony to let him go, but he also wants Tony to touch him, wants to feel the calloused press of thin fingers around his rigid prick, and it’s such a contrast of wants that he feels completely paralysed against the long line of Tony’s body.

Tony continues in a rasp, his mouth brushing Steve’s cheek hotly, “Which is it, Steve? Are you lying about loving me, just using me to get Extremis and maybe get your cock wet, or do you actually love me and are just trying to leave for a fight because you don’t know how to do anything else? If it’s the latter, I assure you that I can give you more than enough incentive to stay, especially since I’m still fighting here.” His hand finally presses against the cup, pushing the hard material against his uncomfortably trapped prick, and Steve can’t help but buck into the painful pressure with a gasp, nausea mixing with the desire until he’s completely incapable of delineating the two feelings with any clarity. He feels feverish, the arousal foreign after so long in an older body, and his hands clench into fists above his head, wrists bulging in Tony’s unyielding metal grip.

He pants and shivers, eyes slitting open until he can see Tony’s body in the dim, blue light of his lab, Tony’s own eyes seeming to glow against the veins of silver metal that creep up his neck and thread along his torso and extremities. He looks hungry and Steve shudders, hips rolling into Tony’s hand even as he croaks out desperately, “Tony, let me go.”

Tony smiles, all teeth, and says huskily, “I don’t think you want me to.”

Half of Steve doesn’t think so either, and he strains uselessly against Tony’s body in both an effort to get closer and rip himself away, unsure of which he wants more. He groans when Tony presses a wet, dragging kiss against his neck, fingers harshly pressing against the inflexible cup in his suit and his body pressed against Steve’s. Steve can feel metal and warm fabric both against him, and there’s no mistaking the clothed erection against his left hip, just as rigid as Steve’s own but not trapped like Steve; he wants to rock against it, wants to hear Tony moan, and he needs to get _out_ of here, because this is _not_ Tony, not the one Steve’s been in love with since before he even realised it himself.

He forces himself to focus, and his body tenses before he pushes himself to move, using his weight to knock Tony off-balance for only split second so he can break away, heading towards the lift as fast as he can with his heavy prick. Tony recovers quickly though, too quickly, and Steve makes it about five long steps before Tony’s behind him, his breath hot against Steve’s neck and his arms yanking Steve backwards into his chest, one hand going to the zipper of Steve’s suit and the other wrapping around his neck in a threatening grip.

Steve’s back arches, neck straining against the hold that’s somehow too tight and not tight enough, and he can feel the solid strength of Tony that’s bolstered by almost fully deployed armour. It’s delicious and terrifying and he lets out a rush of air that could be a sob if he wasn’t so familiar with dampening his responses to stimuli, both positive and negative. He honestly feels like he could come from this alone, just being forced against Tony’s metal-armoured chest, unable to break free from this position without tearing his joints out of socket or asphyxiating himself, and what does that make him?

“You want this, Steve,” Tony husks out, teeth scraping against Steve’s neck just hard enough to hurt, and Steve’s prick is _throbbing_, the unyielding cup agonising now because of the lack of room. Tony’s hand begins pulling down the rest of Steve’s stealth suit, which is honestly welcomed because it’s too tight and over-hot, and then pushes his armoured hand into the elastic waistband of Steve’s undersuit, bypassing the tucked-in shirt and the cup itself until Steve’s prick is freed from its painful confines.

Steve tries to twist his hips away but Tony just laughs against his neck, a light and breathless sound as he harshly grabs Steve by the prick, the metal cold against his damp flesh as he jerks Steve off mercilessly. His hand around Steve’s neck tightens until Steve’s choking, unable to do anything but claw at the armour protecting Tony’s forearm and hand even as his eyes roll back into his head, the sheer pleasure of it all almost too much after so long without so much as _getting_ an erection, let alone getting relief from one.

He’d forgotten how good it felt.

“Let me take care of you,” Tony whispers in between biting kisses and harsh strokes, so strong from Extremis and his armour that Steve can’t do anything but take it, his mind a constant repeat of _no-no-no-this-isn’t-right-tony-wouldn’t-do-this_ even as his body attempts to thrust into Tony’s hand, his palm damp with precome and rough from hard work. He’s so embarrassingly close, and he wants to scream from a mixture of pleasure and horror because this is so wrong and he doesn’t want this, he _doesn’t_, not with _this_ Tony, and he can’t breathe, he can’t _breathe_. “Let me show you how good it is with me, if we’re allowed to be together,” Tony breathes hotly, licking the back of his neck to soothe the bruise that he’s sucked into Steve’s skin. “This is what I’ve always wanted and now I know you want it too, so just let me take care of you, Steve, let me show you how much I love you.”

Steve’s eyes clench shut as he comes, Tony’s words hitting him right in the chest even though his brain is screaming for oxygen just as much as the horror of this situation. He can taste salt on his tongue but it’s a distant thing, everything going fuzzy and heavy as his brain begins to shut down from oxygen deprivation, and through the ringing in his ears he can hear a gurgling moan that he vaguely registers as his own. His balls are aching and his body is jerking wildly as he fights for air while each pulse of spunk from his prick slicks Tony’s hand even more, and it’s too much, it’s too—

The hand around his neck releases and Steve collapses in Tony’s arms, held up effortlessly as he coughs and heaves for breath while his prick still spurts come, the sudden influx of oxygen only prolonging the orgasm. By the time he’s completely lax, throat on fire and his prick softening between his legs, Tony’s already carried him to the other side of the lab, through an open archway, and into a connected bedroom, the same set-up Tony’s always had over the years for when he finally gives into his body’s demand for sleep.

Steve hears himself whisper, “_Tony, please_,” through heavy eyes, his relaxed body unused to orgasms and starting to feel the lack of sleep he’s been able to get since the inversion, but Tony hushes him, laying him gently down on the bed and stripping him of his clothes. “So beautiful,” Tony says, tone awed while rough hands spread his naked legs, one sticky finger pressing against Steve’s hole, and Steve’s completely spent body tenses with alarm.

It’s not that he’s never done that before – he has, though it’s always been by himself while masturbating and not with another person – and he’s not necessarily wary or disgusted by the idea – he’s never gotten off harder, actually, though Steve’s still torn on whether or not that was the prostate stimulation or the thoughts of Tony doing it to him in the first place – but this isn’t something he wants right now, and certainly not in this scenario. He’s tired and spent, his body and mind totally uninterested in sexual stimulation due to his recent orgasm, and he doesn’t have the ridiculously short refractory period that he’d enjoyed with the serum in his veins. Plus he knows that he needs to focus on getting away, getting _out_, so he can go back to Ian and his inverted team of villains, needs to reverse the inversion itself and get the Skull out of confinement before something terrible happens. He can’t afford to sleep now, can’t afford to do this with Tony, even though he watches Tony strip down to nothing with half-lidded eyes, drinking in the sight of his lean, muscular body and the pale glow of the RT in his chest, surrounded by faded scars that even Extremis hadn’t been able to completely erase.

“Don’t,” he croaks through his bruised throat, steeling himself through the exhaustion, and tries to back away even though it’s pointless, Tony slinking forward and holding him down with one hand again, so fucking beautiful and oh-so wrong in the dim lights overhead. His eyes are like glittering aquamarine jewels, too bright and piercing, too _off_, and Steve loves him even as he feels come-damp fingers against his hole, his body opening up to two even though it _burns_, not enough lubrication to slick the way in the slightest.

“It’s okay,” Tony says, pulling his fingers out and reaching over towards the nightstand, probably for lubricant. Steve takes the opportunity to buck, using every trick he has in his arsenal to break Tony’s hold on him, and he manages to slip free for a split second before Tony’s laughing, armour bleeding back over portions of his body so he can use brute strength to hold Steve down more securely. Steve shuts his eyes when he hears the slick sound of liquid being pumped out of a bottle, and then grits his teeth around a hiss of oversensitivity when two fingers slip back inside of his body, stroking and searching and stretching with intent.

When he brushes Steve’s unaroused prostate, Steve moans with near-pain, his sprint prick twitching against his stomach and his body shuddering with the jab of sensation, not at all pleasurable. He tries to jerk away from it, but Tony’s relentless, his free hand holding Steve’s wrists tight against the bed with cold, metal fingers as the other hand assaults his prostate. It’s too much, too _much_, and Steve curls into himself as much as he can, warm tears slipping out of the corners of his eyes down his temples as he thrashes from the sensation. He desperately wishes he was still enhanced with the serum, and he hears himself beg with his wrecked voice, “_Tony, please don’t_.”

“Well that’s just mean,” Tony says around a hum, though his fingers do slip out of Steve with a last lingering, painful drag. His knees, which are pressing into Steve’s thighs to hold them down, dig into Steve’s flesh hard as he lifts himself upwards, and there’s the slick sound of more lube being pumped and Tony getting himself wet, little moans tearing out of his throat as he pulls his prick. “After getting you off, you’re going to be cruel and not extend me the same courtesy? You’re not even trying to make it good for me like I did you. Maybe you really _don’t_ love me after all.”

Steve wants to argue, wants to say that he doesn’t even want this and he hadn’t even had a choice and Tony had forced him and if Tony loved _him_ he wouldn’t be doing this, but he can’t do anything but arch with a sharp inhale when Tony’s prick slides into him, slick and slow until he’s buried inside fully. Steve’s legs clench around Tony’s narrow hips instinctively, and Tony groans, his sticky hand going to Steve’s limp prick and fondling him as his hips jerk with small, involuntary jabs of movement.

Steve cries out at the first touch of Tony’s hand, and there is no possible way he can get hard again but Tony keeps playing with him, leaning close so he can press his lips against Steve’s damp neck. “_Mine_,” he rasps, practically a growl, and Steve arches again as Tony’s teeth scrape against his skin, the most violent surge of arousal singing through his oversensitive, exhausted body. His movement shifts Tony on top of him, and everything still hurts, is still _too much_, but it also burns in his gut, a heat that he can’t see past. The small jerks against his prostate slowly go from painful to slightly pleasurable to _very_ pleasurable, and he’s not even close to hard in Tony’s grip but he’s still leaking, a pathetically small amount of precome that does nothing to stave off the burning friction as Tony starts jerking him off hard and rough.

Everything goes blurry after that, pleasure warring with pain as Tony begins taking what he wants, punishing thrusts that feel so unbelievably, agonisingly good that Steve can’t help but arch up so he can bury his face into Tony’s neck. He squeezes his damp eyes shut, nose filled with Tony’s familiar scent overlaid with sex, and when his wrists are let go, he can do nothing but clutch at the skin of Tony’s back and the thick, short hair at the base of his skull, legs going around Tony’s waist for more-more-_more_, his half-hard prick wedged between their bodies and pulled out of sync with Tony’s thrusts. The stimulation against his prostate is all-consuming, and he can’t stop gasping against Tony’s neck, overstimulated and overwhelmed, desperate to come and hating the fact that he wants to with this distortion of the man he loves.

He can hear Tony speaking but can’t make out the words, his ears ringing, and he feels Tony convulse against him, Steve’s hole flaring with liquid heat that almost burns as Tony comes inside him with a low, drawn-out moan of pleasure. It’s messy and so loud, even through the ringing, and Steve’s entire body goes rigid as he snaps again, balls on fire and prick oozing white, his brain shorting out around a loud, wet sob of both relief and a bone-deep sadness that he can’t hide.

The last thing he hears before his overextended body falls into sleep is Tony whispering into his ear, “All mine.”

* * *

Days go by.

At least, Steve thinks it has been days – it’s hard to figure out exactly how long it’s been because nothing changes down here in the eerily-lit gloom of Tony’s personal levels, though he has a somewhat decent idea. He hasn’t left the bedroom except to shower, and that had only been because Tony had practically dragged him, Steve so worn out and exhausted that he hadn’t been able to stand on his own two feet without buckling like an unsteady deck of cards. He’s been cleaned three times now, Tony fucking his mouth and thighs and tits only to wash the evidence away with gentle swipes of a soft flannel, and it’s the only real passage of time that Steve has, since Tony’s never been a regular eater and therefore Steve can’t trust the timing of meals (that he can’t choke down anyway).

He’s bruised and exhausted and sore, Extremis keeping him from getting sick or hurt too much, but it doesn’t stop Tony from taking Steve to the brink at every moment he’s not working outside Steve’s prison. He thinks that it’s a special version of Extremis, one that saps out his energy and motivation, because as much as Steve burns to get out, to be _free_, he can’t muster the ability to so much as move, let alone fight his way free. He wouldn’t be able to get past Tony’s security in the state he’s in anyway, he’s fairly certain, and that just makes him spiral deeper. All he can think about is what’s happening with the inverted Avengers, if the Red Skull’s been killed yet, if Ian is looking for him or if he’s continued on with the plan to liberate the Skull without Steve, if Tony’s on his way to unload another serving of spunk into whatever hole he deems worth his time.

Steve _hates_ Tony, and it hurts more than the assaults and the betrayal does because Steve _loves_ him too, loves him enough to not bite down when his mouth’s being fucked, to not lull him into a false sense of security during sex only to tear out his jugular with his teeth at the right moment. Steve loves Tony more than anything in the world and he can’t bear to hurt him, because it’s _not him_. No, this is a bastardised version of the man he loves, inverted into selfish cruelty until he’s a wraith of his old self: a bright, stubborn, self-deprecating man who loved and cared for the world so deeply that he would give up his own life and happiness to save it.

Steve would do anything to have that Tony back, but honestly he’s not sure if he could ever look at Tony again after knowing intimately what he is capable of, what he could _do_ if—

Steve estimates three long, miserable days – full of sex and desperate loneliness and Tony whispering those three, poisonous little words as he fucks himself on Steve’s rock-hard prick or fucks _into_ Steve with his own, Extremis occasionally deactivating when Tony’s gone too long to renew it and leaving him old and weak and wracked with wet coughs as his aged body tries to survive the captivity – before he hears the first evidence of life not immediately identifiable as the inverted Tony Stark.

He curls into himself as best as he can with his chafed wrists and ankles bound to the bed with metal cuffs (_keeping him spread open, his hole stuffed with a massive plug that secretes lubrication via a reservoir_). His swollen, dry eyes squeeze shut, stinging despite the fact that he’s fairly sure he’s physically incapable of crying anymore, and he tries to quell the impulse to start calling for help. For all he knows, it could be a villain or another inverted Avenger, and he can’t take that chance. Instead, he listens, trying to discern the individual behind the quiet steps, barely noticeable through the hum of machinery and Steve’s own choppy breaths.

“Fuck,” he hears from the doorway, and that voice is so familiar that Steve’s eyes fly open, frantically looking around the room until he sees Matt Murdock, full-out in his gear. “_Fuck_,” Murdock repeats, and Steve doesn’t even realise that he’s hyperventilating until he feels the cuffs get unlocked after a quick hack of the electronics, Murdock throwing a sheet over his naked body and burying his fingers in Steve’s hair soothingly. “What the fuck has he done?” Murdock says, and Steve’s eyes burn even though he’s incapable of tears, and he tries to speak but Murdock beats him to it, continuing in a croak, “We’ve gotta get you out of here, Rogers. He’ll know I’ve cut your cuffs, and he’s probably on his way. Can you walk?”

Steve shakes his head, gasps through his panic, and then nods, accepting the arm and leaning heavily on Murdock as he works himself to stand on shaking legs, the sopping plug slipping from his hole with a dull thunk against the floor. He can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed, just desperate to _get out now_, and he clings to Murdock as they awkwardly make their way through the quarters, past the wide-open workshop, and to the lift, where Steve is blinded by sunshine streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. He mumbles directions to his stealth sub, and Murdock practically drags him to it, especially when Extremis abruptly cuts off, leaving Steve old and shaking and so fucking weak he can barely think straight, not that he was doing a good job at that beforehand.

Murdock gets him into the sub, miraculously still in its location, just as Tony’s silver armour lands on the impeccable lawn in his usual dramatic fashion, one fist flat against the ground, and those eerily bright eyes watch him with frightening intensity as Murdock steps in between them, allowing Steve to break eye contact and shut the hatch with shaking arms, dizzily working to get the sub moving before Tony follows his frantic escape in his suit, taking him back into the bowels of his island fortress and keeping him hidden until there’s nothing left of Steve to recover.

Steve fills his heart with anger and resolution, vowing to himself to set things right, even if it fucking kills him to do it.

Steve breathes.


End file.
